Little things

i chose to go to an early morning appointment so we’d be back by mid afternoon for Sir Raven.  That meant i had time to dress, put my hair up in a bun, add some blush and powder, and have a strong cup of french press before we ran out for the bus.

Sir Raven forgets her glasses and runs back upstairs.

i’m too slow.

we miss the bus.  And it was sooo close.  It’s maddening. i realize i have become like any other New Yorker, instantly put out.  Even when i try to remind myself that it would be an hour wait in South and Central Florida, i couldn’t have cared less.  Time is something to be managed here.  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

We get there, still a teeny bit early, and had my favorite part of the day so far.  Our backs were to central park, which felt cool and breezy against the already humid day.  i love to people watch.  Well, people listen.  Because sometimes i have no idea what i’m looking at.

My pain management doctor is a dream, other than for the five minutes she is digging around in my back doing the lumbar epidural.  i’ve seen spidurals and its not like that.  Not really.  She is the second doctor to talk to me like i’m still a woman, and asks me about freezing my eggs and having a child.  i’d love that, i really would, as soon as Sir Raven and turn 29 again, enjoy goo health, and have enough money to buy some damn privilege.

Money isn’t everything, but i’ve learned it provides opportunities here.

i’d have killed to have access to so many museums, art programs, libraries, and schools for my boys.  i did what i could, which is to say i became my youngest boys pre-k teacher after raising him alone for two years.  He had the skills of a much younger child, but he was just under exposed and in need of warmth and consistency.  He had some rage issues, and would lie about his day, and i never understood that.  i enrolled him in a Christian boyscouts, primarily because they encouraged parent participation and i was leery about any situation alone before i taught him to respect his own instincts and adapt without anyone knowing anything more about him.  i could see his bits of darkness.  i loved that boy, fell in love with his little freckles, brilliant blue eyes, and chubby baby hands.  i wonder if i had been able to raise any of my kids here.  On painkillers? yes.  With good public transit? yes.

i try to not look back for too long.

i find myself bumping into things before each injection.  i just want to rack Dawn in the balls with a steel toe boot once.  Because, really, fuck this pain.  i wonder sometimes if she would have felt bad about worsening some injuries, causing others, knowing i’m still paying the price.  And then i dismiss the thought.  It really wouldn’t be worth it to be in the same state with her again.

Then i spend about three seconds thinking of my mother, hearing me get beaten into the goddamn wall, and leaving me alone.  i found out later she has instigated it.  Dawn was screaming, hysterically, “Are you ready to get raped again?”  She took off her belt and my cunt would involuntarialy clench in fear and get soaked.  i’ve gotten so wet before, that i thought i’d peed myself.  Look, it happens.  Heh.

Yesterday, i went looking for one of my favorite dresses of all time.  It gently flounced out in all the right places.  i must have spent ten minutes looking-it was my comfort dress-before i remember Dawn had ripped it off of me in a passionate rage.

These are little things, a split few indiscreet moments of time.

These little things have built up and there is no vent.  i’ve noticed since i’ve stopped stuffing my face, that feelings aren’t going down too easy.

i feel like such a fuck-up lately.  i’m behind, and i’m angry.  i’m being obsessed by thoughts of chocolate, which sounds fun, but it’s like a Godiva chocolate commercial erupts in my head every ten minutes, followed by a depraved sex act thought.

The native neurons are going rouge.

They have developed a theme song: Brick in the Wall.


One thought on “Little things

  1. morgianacontentlycaptured says:


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s